


From thence all things flow

by diabolica



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 0.5 seconds of plot, F/M, Florence Arc, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26319091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diabolica/pseuds/diabolica
Summary: Bedelia raises an eyebrow. "Is this going to be like the last time you asked me to read to you?"
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36
Collections: Hannibal Bingo





	From thence all things flow

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my [Hannibal Bingo](https://hannibalbingo.tumblr.com) card, for the prompt "a memento of friendship". Admittedly, it’s a loose interpretation of the prompt.
> 
> Much appreciation to the lovely [dexstarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexstarr) for beta-reading.

"Would you read to me?" Hannibal asks.

Bedelia looks up. Engrossed in her bedtime ritual, she had not heard him coming. They are past the point where she is surprised by his ability to surprise her. He is shirtless, wearing only his pyjama bottoms and a feral expression. She lays the article she has been reading on the arm of the sofa, sets her glass of wine on the end table. Hannibal proffers the book in his hand. She takes it from him, glances at the cover.

"Marcus Aurelius?"

"You like the Meditations, don't you?"

"I do," she says. "It's one of my favourites."

"So I remembered correctly." 

Of course he did, she thinks. Hannibal never remembers incorrectly.

"Yes." Bedelia watches him, waits.

"It's also one of my favourites."

"I remember." She does. It was one of the first things they connected over, all those years ago. The classics had been part of Bedelia’s education because her French father insisted on it. She had loved them as a child, and still does. Herodotus, Plato, Marcus Aurelius—not the sort of reading material one could easily discuss with the average American, even in medical school, even with her psychiatrist friends. The thrill of having someone to discuss them with was one of the things she had liked about Hannibal, once.

"So would you?" he prods. "I enjoy the sound of your voice."

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on his obvious flattery. Shrewd, suspicious, she asks, "Is this going to be like the last time you asked me to read to you?"

Hannibal’s smile is wolfish. "Would you mind if it was?"

She nearly smiles back. She won't give him the satisfaction of a direct reply. This is their game: He advances, she retreats. He pushes and she refuses to yield. He seeks her approval and is sometimes rewarded. 

Wordlessly she takes the book from him, gestures to the space beside her. He sits, then turns and lies on his back with his head in her lap, looking up at her. He settles, making himself comfortable. Bedelia opens the book to the table of contents, positions it in one hand. Almost without her realising it, the fingers of her other hand thread themselves through his hair. Her nails scratch lightly over his scalp and he sighs pleasurably.

"Which book shall we read?" she asks.

"You choose."

She flips pages to Book 2. She reads, "Begin the morning by saying to thyself … " Hannibal takes her free hand and moves it back so that she can continue scratching his scalp. " … But I who have seen the nature of the good that it is beautiful, and of the bad that it is ugly, and the nature of him who does wrong, that it is akin to me, not only of the same blood or seed, but that it participates in the same intelligence and the same portion of the divinity, I can neither be injured by any of them, for no one can fix on me what is ugly …"

Hannibal lies still, eyes closed, listening. Then as she continues to read, he reaches up. She is wearing a satin sheath—the sleepwear he likes to see her in—and he slides the strap down her right shoulder, opening his eyes to watch intently for her reaction. She hardens her resolve.

"From thence all things flow," Bedelia intones, "and there is besides necessity, and that which is for the advantage of the whole universe, of which thou art a part."

When the strap has reached her elbow, he moves the sheath aside to bare her breast. Turning his head in her lap, he brushes his lips against the underside, running the back of his hand down the side. It almost tickles; she suppresses a shudder. Her nipples tighten, anticipating contact. He nips at the underside of her breast with his teeth, then licks up towards her nipple, pulling it between his lips. Still she doesn't react but continues: 

"Thou must now at last perceive of what universe thou art a part, and of what administrator of the universe thy existence is an efflux, and that a limit of time is fixed for thee, which if thou dost not use for clearing away the clouds from thy mind, it will go and thou wilt go, and it will never return." 

He tugs on her nipple, sucking gently. It is maddening. 

Now he has reached over to lower the strap on her left shoulder. She switches the book to her right hand and allows him to pull the strap down, then to lave her other breast. Both are now bare. One nipple is between his teeth now; he is tweaking the other with his fingers, pinching, teasing. She knows precisely how this will end and that does not stop it from working. She is growing wetter as this continues, but he takes his time.

As she nears the end of the page, he stops. He does not put her straps back into place, but sits up and then slides onto the floor. She turns the page. 

"And thou wilt give thyself relief, if thou doest every act of thy life as if it were the last, laying aside all carelessness and passionate aversion from the commands of reason, and all hypocrisy, and self-love, and discontent with the portion which has been given to thee." 

Her bare feet are perched on a footrest. On his knees before her, Hannibal nudges one leg to the side, placing her foot on the floor. He runs his hands up the inside of her thighs, pushing back her sheath to reveal the underwear she is wearing. He waits for a pause and then, "Lift up," he says, tapping on the outside of her hips.

Bedelia lowers the book, eyes him calmly. "I don't know if I should allow this."

"Why not?" he asks, frowning.

"You asked me to read to you, but are you even listening?"

"Of course. 'Thou wilt give thyself relief, if thou doest every act of thy life as if it were the last' "—he spreads his fingers over her belly, places a kiss on her left hip, where the bone is closest to the skin, then another on her right—" 'laying aside all carelessness and passionate aversion from the commands of reason, and all hypocrisy, and self-love, and discontent.' " He dips his head, places a wet, open mouthed kiss directly over her clit through the fabric of her underwear. "Lift," he repeats. "Please."

Palm flat to the sofa for leverage, she raises her hips so that he can slip his hands underneath her. "By all means," he says, eyes on her face, "continue." 

She returns to the page: "Thou seest how few the things are, that which if a man lays hold of, he is able to live a life which flows in quiet, and is like the existence of the gods; for the gods on their part will require nothing more from him who observes these things."

He has lifted one leg to slide her underwear off over her foot, leaving it dangling from the other ankle. Then, as she continues reading he begins kissing her inner thighs, pressing with gentle fingertips to open her to him. Without conscious thought, she slouches downwards, closer to him.

He laps at her—careful, reverent—nuzzling her clit before licking a path _up_. Between the heat of his mouth and the light pressure of his fingers, she has to bite back a noise. He turns his head, then, approaching her sideways.

She almost drops the book on him.

He looks up from what he’s doing, innocent. "You stopped," he says. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Bedelia replies, hating how breathless her voice suddenly sounds. Control is the only thing she has left, and it is slipping.

She reads, "How quickly all things disappear, in the universe the bodies themselves, but in time the remembrance of them; what is the nature of all sensible things, and particularly those which attract with the bait of pleasure or terrify by pain …"

Hannibal applies himself to his task, little wet sounds reaching her through a fog of arousal. Insight arrives, unbidden: If ever there comes a time _after_ Hannibal, after this strange suspended time in which she has lived in a tower with a monster, she will never again be able to read Marcus Aurelius without thinking of this, without having to cross her legs in search of friction that is no longer there. These are his mementos, she thinks, his little tokens of regard to ensure that she will never be the same in the post-Hannibal world. He is making himself indelible, so that even if she makes it out alive he will be linked inextricably with her favourite things.

Contingencies within eventualities, a backup plan for every backup plan. That’s Hannibal.

She continues reading as he edges her closer. He is flattening his tongue and applying insistent pressure with his fingers to her perineum. A delicate ribbon of pleasure is unwinding inside her. She has no idea what she is saying at this point. Bedelia angles the book so that she cannot see what he's doing but it doesn't help. In short order she has stopped reading and allows a sound to slip out, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, as she tumbles over the edge. This is what he’s been waiting for, pushing for. It does the trick; he is gratified.

Gentle kisses across the inside of her thigh as she recovers. He sits back. Wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and looks up at her, smug. "Thank you," he says, tapping the book that is still in her hand. "For indulging me."

"You are horrid," she tells him, because he loves to be reprimanded for his presumption. She is breathing raggedly, pulling the straps of her sheath back into place, pulling herself back together.

"And yet you don't seem bothered."

She sits up and says, "Come to bed, you ridiculous man. I am not done with you."

"I certainly hope not."

She rises. Her underwear lies abandoned on the footrest as she moves towards the bedroom, Hannibal trotting at her heels, eager to discover what she has in store.

**Author's Note:**

> So ... does anyone else want to discuss how intellect is a primary driver of sexual attraction for these two? Because I do! Leave me a comment? It would make my day.
> 
> Alternatively, or in addition, I'm on [tumblr](https://plain-as-pandemonium.tumblr.com/), come and say hello!


End file.
